


The Young Assassins: stories from another trouserleg of time

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assassin!AU, Established Relationship, Ficlets, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, ongoing work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: A series of ficlets based in a universe where Drumknott was born thirty-odd years earlier, and became the scholarship student at the Assassins’ Academy. Predictably, he and Vetinari are the black sheep (har har) of the academy. (I'm taking it as read that this is more like a college/university type of deal, rather than a School per se.)These are all snippets of daily life, are a blatant excuse to write marginally OOC fluff, and will be added to as I think of other ideas. Each can be read in isolation.





	1. I: A Quiet Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once the rowdier lot have gone to bed, Rufus and Havelock can enjoy some rare peace and quiet.

It was past midnight in the third common room (indeed, it was past midnight everywhere in Ankh-Morpork, but that was of no concern to its occupants). A fire still crackled soothingly in the ornate grate, lending a warm yellow glow to the plush seats and deep mahogany wood of the expensive antique furniture. There was barely a sound at this time of night, save for the occasional rustle of a turning page. The place was unoccupied (indeed, it was chosen for this exact reason), save for the long black shape on the sofa nearest the fire, from which the page-noises stemmed. The air of contentment was almost palpable.

The shape shifted slightly and reconfigured into two people, one sitting in the corner of the sofa, the other stretched out along it with his head resting in the first’s lap, both companionably silent, lost in their books. Havelock dropped a hand from its position on the arm of the chair to almost unconsciously pet the golden head on his knees.

They continued reading for a while, before Rufus gave up trying to focus on methods of achieving feather-like silence of movement and closed the book on a finger, shutting his eyes contentedly.

In time, Havelock registered that they weren’t both engaged in the same activity any more, and in turn stilled, prompting Rufus to frown slightly, before opening his eyes to change that into a proper pout. Havelock for his part smiled down at him.

“Time to call it a night?” he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the pages had been.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rufus replied. “I’ve just been enjoying the attention. I’ve still about thirty pages left to cover.”

Havelock huffed in amusement. “Well don’t fall asleep on me, then.”

“Hmm. Of course not.” Rufus shut his eyes again and Havelock resumed his former activities.

It was little surprise to him, not too long later, when he experimentally stopped playing with Rufus’ hair and received no response whatsoever.

He smiled to himself and continued with the final pages of his book.


	2. II: After the Reconnaissance I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rufus has only gone and got himself hurt on a routine recon trip.

Havelock knocked softly on Rufus’ door after dinner on Octeday. He hadn’t seen him at table, indeed hadn’t seen him since lunch, when he had been going to the library. By this point he felt justified in seeking him out, and certainly did not feel anything involving either the words “lonely”, or phrases including conjugations of the verb “to miss”.

The door remained firmly shut, like a particularly recalcitrant clam. He tried again. Persistence, with doors as well as clams, sometimes yielded results.

“Go away...” came the half-hearted and muffled response.

Havelock’s ears pricked up. Was Rufus... with someone? Of course he was perfectly entitled to be, he was a free man, but... he had rather been under the impression he was _Havelock’s_ free man.

“Rufus, it’s me,” he said to the door. He distinctly heard hissed expletives, followed by a loud bang, immediately succeeded by deafening silence.

“... fine,” came the belated, and considerably weaker, response. “It’s unlocked.”

The sight that greeted him upon opening the dread portal was guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings of all but the most hardened. There was his Rufus, sprawled in a heap between the window and the door, with blood congealing in formerly golden curls, more blood leaking out from under his hand which was clamped around his middle, and a foot lying in a position which feet should not be capable of reproducing.

His face must have been a picture of horror, because Rufus said, “It’s not as bad as it looks, Havelock, I just... misjudged the area of my reconnaissance.” He winced slightly. “Some locals saw me and one of them had a crossbow... the bloody foot didn’t even happen until I tried to get the door.” He looked down at it forlornly. “I think it might be broken. Gods, I’ll never pass this exam at this rate!”

Havelock, during this monologue, had had the presence of mind to drop to the floor beside him and begin checking the extent of his injuries. Proud to a fault, Rufus wasn’t going to admit the considerable pain he must be in.

“I’ll ring for water and bandages,” he said, rising smoothly.

“Don’t let th-”

“Consider not talking, Rufus; I have no intention of letting anyone else _near_ you in your present state.” He could feel his eyes narrow slightly. “I want to be sure it’s done _right_ , after all.”

By the time the maid had arrived with the requisite materials, Vetinari had managed to coax a Drumknott considerably closer to passing out than he wanted to admit to sit on the sofa in the corner of the room. He had been divested of his shirt, and Havelock could finally see that the weapon had gone deep enough that it caused concerning amounts of blood loss, but had hit such a small area that nothing vital had been damaged.

Given that the blood wasn’t stemming fast naturally, it was rather an uphill battle trying to dress the wound satisfactorily. He would need to change it later in the night, most likely, and again in the morning. He said so.

“Won’t people... talk?” asked Rufus, his face more confused than concerned.

Havelock shrugged elegantly from the floor. “I believe that if they plan to talk, they have started already. Furthermore, I find it somewhat offensive to our combined skills that they would think that, if we _were_ carrying on relations, we would be so blatant that they would realise.” He was silent for a second, then added, “After all, they never noticed anything before today.” He smirked. “So yes, Rufus, I rather think I shall have to stay the night. Fear not, to preserve your modesty I can sleep on this bloodstained sofa.”

Rufus snorted, then immediately winced, his eyes watering as he fought to regain breath.

“Don’t be an idiot, Havelock.”

And much later, when they were safely ensconced in the big four-poster bed:

“Thank you.”


	3. III: Nicknames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the other students are still a bunch of good-for-nothings (some things never change).

Havelock and Rufus sat, as was their wont, at the end of one of the long trestle tables nearest the door, as close to being in the shadows as they could manage in such an airy, brightly-lit hall. They spoke little, and when they did it was subdued – being both involved in reading their latest acquisitions from the Library.* Raucous laughter erupted from the middle of the table like an especially disagreeable smell, inching closer with all the dreaded certainty of a family member asking at a gathering, “Are you _sure_ you’re not walking out with anyone yet?” In a similar fashion to such tiresome questions, the laughter was ignored by both youths, who nevertheless had the foresight to begin counting down from eight in their heads.

... two, one...

“I bet _you’d_ know, wouldn’t you, Dog-botherer?!” yelled an indeterminate creature from further up the hall.

Rufus didn’t quite wince, being accustomed now to this particular form of dinnertime idiocy.

However, Havelock noted the skin at the corner of his eyes tighten almost imperceptibly. It had never bothered him so much before; they both knew well enough to ignore the names. This one had been taken out of its extended retirement fairly recently, though gods knew what had prompted that. A lack of imagination, probably. By this point, he thought, they really should be better at coming up with them.

Rufus excused himself not too long afterwards, having finished his dinner in silence, leaving Havelock to follow him in his own time.

***

The pair were holed up in one of their rooms (tonight Drumknott’s), continuing to devour their latest books. Occasionally one would break the silence to quote a passage for the use of the room at large, or, less often, to deride the author (not all books, after all, were fonts of knowledge). It was quite late when Havelock, who was lounging cat-like on the chaise longue which all rooms had for “entertaining purposes”, broke the companionable atmosphere.

“What was all that commotion at dinner about?”

“Oh.” Rufus’ ears pinkened almost imperceptibly.

Havelock, however, was already infamous for his perceptiveness, and pressed his advantage. He rose languidly from his place on the sofa and, moved, smooth as silk, to drape himself instead on the big four-poster. Drumknott, out of necessity, began to pay closer attention. You couldn’t just _ignore_ Havelock Vetinari, especially when he was sharing furniture with you.

Drumknott sighed. “Havelock, you know I’m not one for self-pity; it’s utterly pointless in every respect and succeeds only in making one, in my experience, exceedingly unlikeable in addition to being entitled, but... I rather think that association between us cannot, ultimately, work to your advantage. You heard what they’ve started calling you.” The pink tinge edged closer to a salmon colour.

Young Vetinari raised an eloquent eyebrow. It said, “What rot you are speaking this evening,Rufus,” with a side order of “And thus _you_ presume to make suggestions to _me_?” and a dash of “What relation does their name-calling have to our association?”

He repeated this last out loud, just in case the other felt overwhelmed by the smorgasbord of queries on offer.

The salmon threatened fuchsia and Rufus averted his eyes, wincing a little more obviously now they were alone. “ _Dog-botherer_?”  He tried to will the knowledge into Vetinari’s head, but it was as always an impenetrable fortress.

“I admit it’s not one of their more inspired monikers, but surely we’ve had worse, Rufus. Remember th-”

“They call me Labrador. Vetinari’s Labrador, if you must.” The words spilled out as if they had been queued for hours at the boarding gate of Drumknott’s tongue. His face crumpled in utter disgust. “I’m tainting your name by association, Havelock.”

Havelock actually laughed, a loud, humourless bark of a laugh, rousing the pigeons who sometimes roosted on the windowsill outside, not to mention Drumknott, who started back in shock.

“I wondered why they brought that one out of its mothballs.” Rufus just looked at him quizzically. “You weren’t around at school, Rufus, but it was one of their favourites then. No doubt I mentioned, foolishly, that I liked dogs, or perhaps commented on one in the street in youthful excitement. I hadn’t heard it for a good few years; it was a miracle they remembered it at all, given the pitiful amount of grey matter they possess.” He smirked, applying the face of one who is trying to appear as though they were attempting to conceal a smile.

“Dog-botherer for a new age, though, hm, Rufus?” He stretched out fully on the bed and looked up at the other with eyes as blue as the Klatchian seas in summer, and as piercing as a spear to the heart.

“Havelock, are you su-”

“No better manner in which to remove the potency of their words than to mould them into something we can’t talk about at dinner parties, Rufus.” He then had the audacity – _while lying on my own damned bed!_ thought Drumknott – to wink.

“Now _really,_ Havelo _-”_

 “Bothering,” the smirk threatened to become a grin as he propped his chin on one hand and ran the other lightly up Rufus’ nearest arm, “can be arranged.”

 

 

 

*The Palace library, that is; some books simply couldn’t be acquired in an educational setting, and they reasoned that Mad Lord Snapcase wasn’t exactly going to miss a few, being – well, mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I do have fluffy ideas for these two but gosh I just keep writing the emotional-turmoil ones instead... it doesn't help that I'm sitting on a vertaible magnum opus atm and keep getting caught up in writing wee short things instead of finishing it...  
> Comments as always very much appreciated! <3


	4. IV: The Library

The pair of shadowy figures flitted, unseen, from rooftop to rooftop across Morpork. There was little need for them to do this, for the journey, as the morpork flies, was less than three hundred feet. However, it was the feel of the thing which was important, and furthermore sneaking out of the Guild in the dead of night (in itself perfectly permissible, indeed admirable if one remained unseen) and simply walking up to the front gates of the Patrician’s Palace was considered the realm of Assassins with a deathwish.

At this time there would be no guard on the corner of Eight Deadly Sins, as they had just moved on to the Maul. The figures, blending incredibly well with the grey background of the city for persons who were obliged to wear black at all times, nimbly vaulted over the tall, spiked barricade separating Them from Us. This was barely an assignation at all, more a leisurely moonlit walk in the park.

The couple wandered almost idly through the denser parts of the Palace gardens, casually avoiding the hoho and winding like trails of mist through the trees. They had this now timed perfectly; there were no guards to be seen – and they _would_ have seen them had they been visible, or even concealed – and the first of the two darted from the shelter of the foliage and began to scale the closest wall with lizard-like agility, moving from eave to drainpipe without a pause. It soon vanished into the grey palace walls lightly draped with grey Ankh-Morpork fog.

The second figure loitered still by the trees. An onlooker might have thought it was nervous, but would have been proven hasty in their assumptions as a heavily plumed soldier bearing a pike rounded the corner of the Palace, walking with the alertness of one who is paid a not-inconsiderable sum to do the job correctly.

As he was paid to do his job correctly, he looked round suddenly, sensing something behind him. There was nothing there.

Ten feet above him and to his left, however, a grey figure clung to the ornamental gargoyle decorating the cornice (the ability to determine whether a gargoyle was ornamental was a key tenet of success in the Assassin’s business, given their close acquaintance with roofs; one who failed to distinguish tended to find their career cut tragically short). The figure waited, still as the night air, until the guard was at an appropriate distance. Then it looped and spun rapidly up the side of the building and onto one of the roofs, perching with its companion like a pair of strange birds.

The first figure let itself drop lightly from the eaves above a tall arched window onto a small balcony, closely followed by the other, smaller figure which appeared suddenly without having seemed to drop from anywhere at all. The first man – for men they both were – leaned gently against the corner of one of the aging lead supports, and-

The window pane came quietly free, and was caught by practiced hands before it hit the carpeted ground.

The pair insinuated themselves, in perfect silence, into the newly-created portal, and flicked back their grey hoods, taking in the dim light of a half-moon illuminating the shelves upon shelves of the Palace’s Library. This month, they had four acquisitions in mind.

***

An hour or so later, they let themselves in through the window of Vetinari’s room, and hung up their non-regulation grey cloaks on the stand by the wardrobe.

“A success, I’m presuming?” said the taller figure, reaching for the light bag which the other carried.

“Of course,” replied Rufus, pulling it over his head and setting the contents down on the coffee table. “I rather think in another life I would have enjoyed working with documents. There’s something so steadfast about them. Comforting.”

Vetinari smiled softly and nodded, adding his offerings to the small pile. “I understand. It feels right, somehow. On the other hand, would such work keep the mind quite as agile as evading Winder’s so-called guards every month? I am unsure.”

The coffee table now played host to a teapot, two cups, two open notebooks covered in writing which brought to mind images of ink-dipped spiders, two quill pens, and three piles of books. There were more on the floor around the chairs, all stacked with near-terrifying precision for a student room.

Most of these were from the Guild’s own library, but sometimes in the course of his studies, extra-curricular or otherwise, an Assassin of calibre found himself required to resort to other repositories. The Unseen University was soon dismissed as an option, partly due to the fact that one could never tell when a book might bite back (not something covered in Assassin training), and partly due to the fact that breaking into the Palace regularly gave both of them the opportunity to keep up to date with changes in security, and of course to practise, should they ever need to break in for more nefarious purposes.

The four new acquisitions were soon spread out over the table. If one attempted to identify the purpose of these titles, one would be hard pressed to link them together. They covered a myriad of topics Disc-wide, with no apparent relation to each other, other than as pure entertainment.

There was a Klatchian history book written in the original tongue, as Havelock was learning the language this month, and it paid to understand the mentality behind another culture, and not simply the words they spoke; not to mention it constituted an intriguing exercise to examine history as it was transcribed by someone from the “other side”. Next to this was _The Annotated Bloodaxe and Ironhammer_ , by Griml Goldfingers, again chosen as a primary source. Drumknott was already leafing through _The Legality of Morality: A Study of the Modern System of Law in Ankh-Morpork_ , the first edition of a book held by the Guild, written before the author found himself unfortunately lacking several fingernails, and indeed multiple fingers, in an unfortunate accident with pliers, after his mysterious holiday to Fourecks. The final book was a small, poorly-bound volume curiously unavailable at the Guild, despite its being mentioned in numerous texts, entitled simply, _Orc History_. In the modern suburban world, it certainly was worthwhile knowing your neighbour, it seemed.

Unless one had higher aspirations, perhaps.

Let it not be said, however, that these canny students were no more than common thieves. No; when possessed of such a memory for detail as these two, one had no need to hoard books obtained illegally. At the end of each term, all were surreptitiously returned – or sooner, if they were no longer necessary. It was exceedingly unlikely the Patrician ever contemplated making use of his vast resources in the running of the city.

The pair curled up on their respective chairs and settled down for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep writing these instead of my 10k+ fic and it's driving me nuts but I'm having a lot of fun... I went and bought an Assassin diary so I wasn't massacreing the lore more than necessary... whoops...  
> Hope you are enjoying these! :)


	5. V: After the Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Havelock returns from the summer break having grown his hair out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean I did say these were totally random... they're not following the academic year At All, just so we're all aware xD The next one is probably going to be at Hogswatch...  
> This one is probably about as teen-rated as we're going to get, btw, so if that isnae your jam, now you know and can skip it ;)

It was the start of another academic year, which meant the usual throngs of excited or nervous freshers, odd patches of bored or lonely students from other years, and a distinct lack of anyone in final year or at postgraduate level. The raucous tones of the flocks of students assaulted the senses like so many seagulls, doubly so when the place had been so silent for so long. Those Assassins who had graduated vanished mysteriously like mist on a foggy night, seeking the solace either of their cosily soundproofed rooms or of course the library, in which no student would be seen dead or alive.

Havelock Vetinari had returned two weeks previously, after informing his aunt that there was an urgent assignment underway. The assignment in question comprised reading his books in peace, away from the cats who shed far too much fur for someone who largely wore very dark shades of grey, and reacquainting himself with the roofs of the City in which he lived for the majority of the year. It felt like greeting a friend after months of no contact, or perhaps a lover who had journeyed abroad and acquired new experiences to which he was not privy.

On the topic of which...

Havelock smiled softly as he saw the golden head approaching from Lower Broadway. Trust him to arrive bang on time for a new term. Then again, as the sole surviving scholarship student, it was likely expected of him. He realised he was fiddling with his collarbone-length hair, a habit he had picked up in recent months and would have to quell in public view if he wanted to avoid the associated ribbing (or at the very least mitigate it).

Half an hour later there was a knock at his door, which could only be one person. He slipped from the window-seat and went to let him in, pleased that Rufus now felt able to simply knock of his own accord, when for so long he had shied away from entering Havelock’s room even when invited.

Havelock was greeted when he opened the door with the sight of Rufus’ pre-emptory smile fading like autumn leaves, to be replaced by the blankest of gazes he had ever seen cross his face. The interlude was brief, however, and a wide smile replaced the blankness – a little too earnest to be wholly sincere, perhaps. Havelock concertedly arranged his expression into one of pleasant greeting in response. Something was wrong.

Oh, he was perfectly friendly, but he never _quite_ met Havelock’s eyes, his gaze directed somewhere in the middle distance in preference. When he excused himself “for registration, as I’m not strictly meant to be here otherwise” and promised to return later, he spoke to the bedstead, and not to Havelock. Certainly, he returned, and continued to do so in between organising the requisite paperwork for a non-titled member of the Guild, but all the time he didn’t manage to look Havelock in the face. Vetinari for his part hadn’t expected to feel so perturbed about this state of affairs, and it rather... concerned him, the amount which he had come to rely on Rufus for companionship.

***

After dinner, the pair paused briefly at the top of the staircase. “My room, Havelock?” Just the same as usual, when they would spirit themselves off to some empty area and read or talk until the night drew in.

Havelock had had enough, however; some way or another, this situation had to be rectified. “I don’t know that I should go anywhere of the like, as you haven’t been capable of looking me in the eye all day.” Probably a girl, he reflected as he turned away, an inexplicable weight settling just below his ribcage, nestling there like a large and indolent snake. He had heard such things could happen over long academic breaks, but had never before credited it.

His retreat, however, was hampered by the rather more frantic timbre lent to the words behind him: “Havelock, please...” – not to mention the deceptively strong hand which had wrapped around his wrist. He _could_ have broken its hold (not to mention the hand), but found himself, in spite of his intent to enact a prompt exit, desperate to comprehend just what had occurred between Rufus and himself when he had been absent. He stopped resisting, and let himself be led through the halls replete with bustling activity of a likely illegitimate nature, before stopping outside Rufus’ own door.

With his free hand, Rufus let them in, still apparently unable to look Havelock, who was now standing just inside the room, in the face.

“Havelock...” He _finally_ looked up at him, finally gave him the pleasure of drowning in the eyes to which he had been denied access for so many months. Vetinari was therefore a little peeved when the eyes promptly closed again and Rufus exhaled in a shuddering breath. Was this a prelude to important information, then, or had he simply lost the ability to speak?

The eyes opened, and Havelock suddenly found himself with his back to the door, and his front to rather more Rufus than previously expected. His hands came up automatically to rest on the other’s waist, and the snake which had been making such a mess of his insides deigned to vacate the premises. They were less than an inch apart, so there was really no mistaking the words when Rufus murmured:

“You look incredible, Havelock,” before drawing back enough to take in his whole face and attempting a smile. He was clearly having trouble controlling his own expression, however, and Havelock decided to put him out of his misery, pulling him gently into a searching kiss which escalated rather faster than he had expected as Rufus wound both hands in his hair and proceeded to give a lesson in Quirmian kissing of which even a Seamstress would likely be proud. When Rufus pulled just slightly to get another angle, it was he who moaned into Havelock’s mouth (although admittedly, Havelock didn’t exactly manage to stay silent).

They pulled apart what felt like hours later as Rufus pressed smaller kisses to his jaw, a hand still buried in his hair. Havelock realised what the problem had been, and was trying desperately to remove the smirk from his face when Rufus moved away, saw his expression and turned a fetching geranium-pink in an instant.

“I- I’m sorry Havelock, I... your h- oh gods...” He didn’t seem able to say the words, his face approaching lobster-red.

Havelock smiled down at him fondly. “You’re an absolute fool, Rufus. Now,” he steered the other towards the sofa by the fire, “Clearly we need to acclimatise you to this,” he gestured vaguely to his head, “So I rather think,” he gently pushed Rufus, who was still somewhat dazed, onto the chair, then reclined gracefully along it, leaving his head in the other’s lap, “That an evening of, aha, if you will excuse me, _heavy petting_ is in order.”

He grinned up at him.


	6. VI: A Sunny Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/Humour type ficlet. Grievous use of already overused cliches. But that's half the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shortest ficlet yet; this is exactly what I was going for when I decided to start this series but it rather got away from me... this does mean I'll probs get another up tomorrow though~

Havelock Vetinari wandered through the third common room, empty as always on an Octeday in midsummer. He passed four perfectly serviceable armchairs, one possessing the added bonus of a lone cushion which had not yet met its demise, making for the chair at the far end by the window. It was a glorious day outside, just the kind of day which prompted the less disciplined among their number to decide to study their practical skills out of doors. There was little utility in this; an Assassin should instead focus on triumphing in adverse weather conditions. Anyone could track somebody when the sun was in the sky and the sky was attempting to show at least streaks of a colour which might be called blue (the closest which Ankh-Morpork ever came to the fabled Klatchian azure).

As he passed another nondescript velveteen chair, he found himself suddenly accosted by its occupant, who grabbed him by the waist and pulled him bodily over the arm, where he ended up sprawled across the lap of a grinning blond.

"Rufus!" he barked, his face losing for a second its habitual calm. He faced down conflicting emotions of exasperation, pride that he had been caught by none other than _his_ Rufus, and vague annoyance for the same reason. "You _know_ I have three knives and two hidden weapons on me at all times; _anything_ could happen if you're not careful!"

"Only two hidden weapons?" smirked Rufus, staunchly refusing to move and let Havelock sit up properly. It was hard to tell someone off when you were both draped across their lap and enveloped in their arms. "And there I thought you had a miniature crossbow in your pocket..."

He dodged the missile (a dog biscuit) as it hurtled towards him, and laughed. 

Havelock relaxed into the embrace, grudgingly admitting that book-related endeavours had been rather definitively surpassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. There's a packet of dog biscuits in his pocket. This is /Havelock Vetinari/ we're talking ahout after all. Dogs are of paramount importance.


	7. VII: After the Reconnaissance II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Vetinari's turn to be looked after :)

The window to Rufus Drumknott’s room banged open late that night, startling him from his book regarding (ironically) the art of appearing unperturbed. It admitted a not inconsiderable amount of water, wind, and a soaking black (or rather, dark grey) lump, which collapsed on the floor with a muttered expletive.

“Havelock,” he said matter-of-factly, slipping off the bed, “If you wanted to visit, I do possess a door.” He shook his head fondly, collecting a blanket from the foot of the bed. “Let’s get you dried out.”

He divested the intruder of his cloak and draped it over the airing rack, before bodily shoving the still-stationary visitor towards the fireplace. “Sit _down_ , Havelock,” he rang the bell for tea and began rummaging in the wardrobe. “And don’t you dare even think about sneaking out while I’m not looking.”

The other had the good grace to smile rather ruefully at the floor; some things never changed. It was a given that he would attempt to leave and lick his metaphorical wounds in solitude, and just as certain that Rufus would prevent him from doing so. The world turned.

“Right, you absolute madman- oh, for gods’ sake,” Rufus had turned round to see that Vetinari, while still in the room and seated as per his direct orders, hadn’t moved an inch and was now (to one with senses as finetuned as Drumknott’s) visibly shivering. “Sitting there being cold and wet won’t make you a better Assassin, Havelock.”

Vetinari shot him a look which clearly said, _You don’t_ know _that_ , but allowed Rufus to divest him of his now totally soaked blanket and wrap him in another one, setting a small mountain of the things by the side of the sofa on which Vetinari perched. They were interrupted by the tea, which Rufus duly set on the table closest to the fire as an incentive. Some people would _not_ be looked after.

He sat himself down next to the silent grey heap and swung his legs up onto the sofa longwise, pulling Havelock close against his chest with one arm and picking up a small towel from the pile beside him to start work on his hair, which was still dripping down his face. Vetinari huffed out a breath in something approaching frustration, but relaxed almost imperceptibly into the other’s arms nonetheless. Rufus smiled and rested his chin lightly on the gaunt shoulder in front of him, still idly patting his hair and neck dry.

 “Some bloody idiot locked my window,” Vetinari managed after fifteen minutes’ expedient application of blankets and arms to his person.

“Hmm,” was the non-committal response into his still-damp hair. “Maybe there’s more than one of those kicking around-” Rufus tightened his grip to stop the other from leaving in a huff, “- What on the Disc persuaded you to go out in that weather?”

“I’ll have you know, Rufus,” came the arch reply, “That silence and alertness in _all_ weather is the realm of the Assassin, and not just on a fine clear night. I wished to ascertain whether my reading had been fruitful in this respect.” He sniffed. “There were no issues to speak of prior to my return.”

Rufus smiled. “You _are_ feeling better.”

There was a pause, before Vetinari cautiously replied, “Thanks to you. An Assassin’s life may be a solitary one, but... I find myself disinclined to continue without you.”

Rufus chuckled softly. “Well, I can’t foresee that happening any time soon, can you? If you’re going to get melancholy I shall send you back to your own room. Where, if I might add, the fire has not been burning for the last two hours, there is no tea, and,” he smirked, “No me. Which is evidently an extremely important factor in your considerations.”

Havelock stretched; a long, grey, contented cat. “As always, you are correct. Bed?”

“Not in those clothes!” Rufus clambered to his feet, dislodging a suddenly petulant Vetinari, and after some more judicious rummaging threw a clean nightgown at him. He tried and decidedly failed to hide his smile at the face Havelock was making.

“This is _green_ , Rufus.” Holding it up to the light wasn’t making the colour change any faster.

“Yes, yes, very anti-regulation, lacking in a certain fashionable _je ne sais quoi_ , etc. etc., I know. It was a gift, if you must know. In any case,” he said, smirking, “It will bring out your lovely blue eyes.” He fluttered eyelashes at Vetinari and expertly dodged the blanket which came towards him like an avenging jellyfish, laughing.

Outside, the rain continued its relentless beating on the window. The city didn’t sleep, but in time the pair of Assassins did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this right at the beginning but wanted to save it for a wee bit to break it up. As always, any and all comments are duly adored <3


	8. VIII: The Assassins' Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I'm using this as a way to get them to do things they normally wouldn't let a narrator see, and Vetinari is canonically a Member of the Institute of Dance & Deportment, this happened.

The December Eve Assassins’ Truce at Hogswatch, so named as someone, at some point in the Guild’s history, had clearly counted a sense of humour among their methods of inhumation, was one of the society events of the year – due in part to the fact that life was, exceptionally, guaranteed in a premises full of trained and in-training Assassins. As per the title, a truce was called on all contracts, allowing for less judicious merrymaking than would otherwise be the case (and the prawn cocktails were really quite sublime when not laced with cyanide).

The entrance hall was decked out in a style befitting the hosts and their guests – top to bottom in glittering gold and red, imps sprinkling the arriving partygoers liberally with clouds of similarly coloured confetti. Wound around every available pillar was enough holly (and glitter) to build a small house, and in certain corners there was discreet application of mistletoe. Not that it was ever needed when the event was in full swing – a drunk aristocrat took permission from no such thing as _plants_.

The hall itself was filled to bursting with people, largely of the inebriated variety, as they milled in an overly-friendly manner at the edges near the long trestle tables laden with festive fripperies, or danced ludicrously carefully in the centre of the room. This too was similarly decorated, with fairy lights (living up to their name due to being held by yet more imps) floating in the air at intervals for that appropriately festive appearance.

Vetinari, Havelock to his friend and his aunt, any number of unpleasant nicknames to anyone else, had sequestered himself, early in the evening, in one of the few shadows available. Happily, next to one of the ornate marble busts (which wore a jaunty little paper hat, as did most of its fellows) there was one such shadow which _just_ fit a man comfortably. He found that such events did nothing other than needlessly tax his already grudging tolerance of his peers, having long ago discovered that the amount of alcohol which would affect him would flatten an army, and more recently discovered (i.e. in the last hour) that the only person with whom he _would_ tolerate spending such an evening was nowhere to be seen. He thus planned to remain where he stood, unnoticeable as a gargoyle and bitter as a lemon, until he could see his way clear to the staircase which was the nearest escape.

Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, a smaller shadow appeared suddenly beside him, with no prior indication of being anywhere in the area whatsoever.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Havelock?” came the murmured question far too close to his ear. In spite of himself he shivered. Rufus would soon rival him for covert manoeuvres.

“I’ve attended more engaging gatherings,” he replied without turning his head, or, as it appeared to the no people watching, moving his lips.

“Good,” Rufus answered somewhat enigmatically, before adding, “Meet me upstairs in ten minutes. My room, clearly.”

The shadow, or presence, vanished.

***

Ten minutes later, Havelock slowly pushed open the door to Rufus’ room, intrigued despite himself, and moreover, practically delighted for a legitimate excuse to be away from the increasingly intolerable aristocracy downstairs (the fact that he counted among their number was of no relevance; _he_ wasn’t drinking and pawing over everything in sight*).

Rufus looked up from the sideboard, where he was fiddling with something, and smiled brightly. The room lit up around him, the standing lamp and wall sconces fading into darkness in the face of it. Havelock smiled back, and stalked over to the other side of the room, intending to see what Rufus was up to, but found himself shooed away to lean against the armchair which had been moved to rest by the door, along with the sofa and coffee table. And so he waited to see what might transpire.

Not long afterwards, Rufus let out an “ah!” and moved into the cleared space, holding out a hand to the other. Vetinari stepped forward and took it, unable to refrain from commenting softly as he kissed Rufus on the cheek, “Finally decided to bother with me then, hm? And there I was enjoying all that... merriment downstairs.”

He got a playful shove for his troubles, and took advantage of having both hands free to wrap them around the other’s waist and pull him closer, allowing an amused smile to grace his features. Rufus, for his part, looped his hands around Havelock’s neck, tilting his head a little to regard him coyly from beneath his lashes.

“I know you’re all taught at school how to dance, Havelock.”

Vetinari’s eyes widened in response at the non-sequitur, and an eyebrow raised fractionally. He wouldn’t-

“Well, I wasn’t, but I picked it up over the years.”

 _Of course you did_ , thought Havelock, unable to restrain a smile.

“Personally, I wouldn’t relish being seen in front of our... peers doing so, and I imagine neither would you.” A wry grin. “As much as the drinking and the people and their general... activities didn’t appeal to me, the atmosphere seemed to call for dancing. Just... not in front of people. And certainly not those people. And not in our line of business.” His smile had been transferred rather awkwardly to the floor. That wouldn’t do at all.

“I understand your concern. As Assassins first and foremost, it is natural that you and I should shy away from public perception. Those... persons are aristocracy first, Assassins second... and most of them not even Assassins. _Character_ assassins, maybe.”

Rufus felt a sudden wash of warm emotion for the other at the indignation lacing his tone; it was really rather attractive when he denounced his fellow nobility, especially when the said denunciation resulted in considering the two of them in any way comparable. He thus pressed onwards before he gave up on the evening’s plan in favour of just kissing the breath out of him.

“And so, given that this is practically the only time of the year when this opportunity might arise, I... recorded some of the music,” he finished, smiling rather bashfully and gesturing at the imp on the sideboard. “Havelock... may I have this dance?”

And even if he hadn’t been looking up through those long blond lashes as he said so, and even if he hadn’t been smiling that soft smile which only Havelock ever saw, Vetinari doubted he could have refused him for the world.

 

 

*The fact that everything in sight was now Rufus alone was admittedly making that a rather difficult moral high ground to maintain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It's a big old cliché of an ending but at this point I'm nae actually fussed :))


	9. IX: Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because realistically the only way Vetinari isn’t going to keep on top of his beauty regimen is when he’s so sick he literally can’t.  
> At this point, this series is utterly shameless, but I MAINTAIN that it's not OOC, it's just letting them both be Teenagers With Friends, which as we know is probably the most alternate AU we've got xD Like, Vetinari is monstrously vain. He has jet-black hair at fifty. Come on now. #gothlyfeorbust

Havelock Vetinari was draped dramatically over his bed lengthwise, not quite wailing but certainly speaking with a decidedly plaintive keen to his voice.

“I’m _twenty-bloody-four_ , Rufus! What sins must I have committed to be so blighted at this time of life?”

Drumknott, who was sat primly in an armchair trying to read, rolled his eyes at the stricken Assassin. “Yes, so you’ve said, Havelock. Every day. At least four times. For the last week. You’ll look better soon, I promise.” He almost succeeded in keeping the laughter out of his voice.

Vetinari flumped down in the pillows again and moaned, throwing one arm over his face. “Don’t talk about it. I’m hideous.”

Rufus buried his head in his free hand in despair, fighting the urge to roll his severely put-upon eyes for the fifth time in as many minutes. At the very first sign of chickenpox, Havelock had sequestered himself in his room, not out of any concern for his fellow students, but because among his admittedly few vices there lurked that of Vanity. As Rufus had contracted it as a child, he was thus lumped with playing nursemaid (which he didn’t mind, as he had rather signed up for it) and confidant (which by now he most certainly did mind, despite having signed up for it) to the exceedingly overdramatic young Assassin who he was (usually) proud to call his friend (among other things).

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with you, Havelock,” he said to the other, who was definitely _not_ peeking out from under his arm to ascertain the effect which his plight had had on his audience. “Look, you hardly got any on your face at all, and they’re all practically gone now. I can’t bring you the entire library to read for the next month while they heal totally, you know. Follett will skin me alive. Here.” He got to his feet and handed the prostrated Havelock a hand mirror, yet again fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

Vetinari sat up, grudgingly accepted the mirror, then actually looked in it and gave a little shriek, shying away from it and dropping it on the sheets as though it burned. Now he was _definitely_ playing to the crowd. Rufus sucked in his cheeks to prevent his own inevitable and traitorous smile at the histrionics.

“My _hair,_ Rufus!” That was definitely a wail. Honestly, the man knew countless methods of killing any number of people, was probably the most well-read person on the Disc (and that included most vampires), and yet leave him for a few days without regular access to black hair dye and he was overcome.

“Oh, I don’t know, Havelock,” Rufus allowed the smile to spread across his face, looking down at the ginger roots growing through the remnants of the usual ebony. “I think it’s cute.”

Vetinari buried his face in a pillow and most certainly did _not_ scream.


	10. X: The Musician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have So Many Other Things To Write for this series but here I am writing this instead... nobody even asked for it!

It was a beautiful summer’s day, such as one could have in the centre of Ankh-Morpork. The sun was making a valiant attempt to part the perpetual city smog, such birds as could survive in the rugged terrain were tweeting frantically, and a light breeze drifted along Broad Way and into the bright, airy premises of the postgraduate Assassins’ dorms. The windows were thrown open in deference to this rare occasion, and several of Ankh-Morpork’s creatures, in all their reeking, worm-infested glory, had assembled around those dread portals.

Rufus Drumknott lay full length on the big four poster in Havelock Vetinari’s room, shirtsleeves rolled up, waistcoat undone and arms propped on the footboard, smiling in a vacant sort of way at the room’s other occupant and occasionally taking idle sips of pink lemonade.

The idyllic tableau was completed by the strains of Bath’s Cello Sweet No 1 in G major soaring through the heady atmosphere like a solitary swan in flight. Vetinari, as with every other aspect of life to which he turned his eminently capable hand, made the wooden creature sing – each note flying free through the air on a long, long leash, in perfect Ankh-Morpork style.

Watching him was an art form in itself – in the instrument he found the means to join the notes floating in a golden cloud above their heads and for once, be only Havelock – not Lord, not Vetinari.

Rufus thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, in any book or scroll or engraving.

And this was why nobody had noticed the small firework which sailed through the open window and landed under the bed, its sizzling passing unnoticed in the music-filled room.

The fuse fizzled out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And Vetinari never again played the cello because of it, thus fulfilling the Discworld canon that he prefers written music to performed. It’s safer that way.  
>  (Also miraculously everyone survived. Don't ask me how. But we are having No Death Here On This Day Or Any Other, rest assured.)


	11. XI: The Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Totally forgotten I'd written this... whoops. Rufus demonstrates that he isn't /just/ a pretty face.

The dapper figure, head to toe in very expensive black, or possibly more accurately _noir_ , met the client after the opera as arranged. He fitted in perfectly among the silks and velvets of the upper echelons, and indeed, once the rendezvous had been effected, appeared to be the half of the pair who came from Old Money.

This was rather emphatically not the case. Rufus Drumknott, as one of the sole remaining scholarship postgraduates at the Assassins’ Guild School, was a man of little means, who just about subsisted on the pay from the occasional contract completed in between his studies. This evening, he was engaged in research for his course in Stealth and Deception, which he was currently pursuing along with The Art of Circumspection and the Correct Tone of Conversation (Stage IV): Ideas Below One’s Station. Of course, in Drumknott’s case, this covered ideas _of_ his station, as perceived by the aristocracy, and was thus of considerable utility in his work.

To this end, he had secured an audience with the rich, and most importantly _vocal_ young client – which trait seemed to be causing some consternation among the noblesse.

And Drumknott for once was inclined to agree with them, as he had in the past few days listened to the tiresome creature expounding at some length upon his ideas for replacing most of Morpork with a sports arena or similar space – “for the horses, you know” – because “those peasants are a terrible mess, cluttering up the place like so many rats”. _I mean,_ thought Drumknott, _he uses the word “peasant” to describe city-dwellers, for heavens’ sake. What century does he think this is?_ Moreover, from this oft-repeated monologue it was evident that he had no concept of the machinations of commerce; it was no wonder even his own people wanted rid of him.

Of rather more concern to Drumknott, meanwhile, was the recent spate of disappearances of young persons apprenticed to the Lawyers and the more discerning of Artificers. There was both a dearth of evidence and of concern regarding these unfortunates, who later appeared floating, or more accurately wedged, in the river Ankh. After some surreptitious digging of his own, such evidence as he could accrue pointed to this pathetic little peer being the culprit.

Of course, it was forbidden for an Assassin to take the law into his own hands, but if a contract was already open, it was surely just good business sense to, ah, kill two birds with one stone. That the method of inhumation was perhaps more inventive or drawn-out than _strictly_ necessary was of no relevance, so long as the rules were upheld (and he would most certainly ensure that they were).

And so it was that Rufus Drumknott this evening was playing the part of an upper-middle-class apprentice lawyer living somewhat beyond his means – and was thus as drunk as, ironically, a lord, and dressed to, funnily enough, kill. He rolled his eyes internally and began Part Three of the offensive: _Flattery and Flirtation in order to beFuddle_ *, anticipating with glee the moment when he could slide a knife between the fellow’s ribs.

*The chapter title was still a work in progress.

***

A shadow followed the debonair couple winding through the streets of Ankh – twice past the same row of houses – as the black-clad one chattered away merrily, obviously on the wrong side of tipsy and occasionally letting playful hands linger _just_ too long on arms and wrists as they walked. He deserved his degree for this evening’s work alone; it was almost a shame that such artistry was destined to languish only in the void of Vetinari’s memory – for the shadow was he. Drumknott could have taught a class on Deception and probably enlightened even the tutors – Vetinari was certainly not following him due to lack of respect for his skills.

Despite his clearly evident competence, there was no chance on the Disc he would allow Drumknott to go on an assignment alone, as there were no moneyed or titled persons to ensure his safe return in the event of an unfortunate mishap. While he, Vetinari, would of course uphold the rules scrupulously – two Assassins covering one client was considered, aha, overkill – if one Assassin was removed from action then one _more_ would merely uphold the status quo. Technically.

The pair had, after several circuits of neighbourhoods which appeared almost identical (overlarge buildings; clean, wide streets; a dearth of any more _interesting_ residents), arrived at a house with as much to commend it as any of the others. _A murderer hiding among thieves_ , thought Havelock Vetinari the Assassin, class traitor and possible hypocrite, as he installed himself surreptitiously in a nearby alcove and settled down to wait.

He bristled in his doorway as the nasty little creature wrapped an arm around _his_ Rufus, thank you _very_ much, and ushered him indoors. It was practically criminal that Drumknott was so good at his job; watching him, while an education, was also _excruciating_.

Several minutes later, a light flickered into existence upstairs. He narrowed his eyes.

Less than five minutes after that, and two minutes after Vetinari had begun a preliminary mental run-through of his personal armoury, the figure in black let itself out of the front door, adjusting its gloves meticulously, and headed straight for the nook in which Vetinari was now lounging casually, the very picture of nonchalance.

Drumknott approached with the steady step and clear eyes of the chronically sober, and smiled wryly in the dim street light.

“Thank you for the support, Havelock, but honestly I was perfectly capable of handling him. He was a sad little creature; certainly not intelligent enough to fight back when his victim turned out to be... rather more of a danger than expected.”

“I like to be certain,” was all the other said in reply, flicking back the hood of his cloak and threading an arm through Drumknott’s. “Well done.”

Contract fulfilled and receipt left, the pair wandered off into the perpetual fog, one several shades darker than the night which swallowed them, the other almost invisible in artlessly draped greyish garb, and took the roof route home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had. So many more ideas for this series, but I can't see me finding time now... aaaaaaaa  
> Thank you for reading! As always ;) Comments are my lifeblood ;) xx


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